Esther's Sling (30 page)

Almost three hours later, a U.S. Air Force C-37A sat at the southeast end of runway 33 right at Tel Nof Air Force Base just south of Tel Aviv. The noon heat shimmered the horizon as the pilot began his take off roll. On board, in addition to the pilot and co-pilot, was a 12 member team of Sayeret Matkal, the elite special forces of the IDF. Also on board was a CIA agent whose job was to get this unit, referred to as Task Force Camel, on its way to completing its assigned mission, the details of which were kept from him.

The air force version of the Gulfstream 550 banked left and climbed rapidly as it headed west over the Mediterranean Sea. After flying 35 miles the plane started to turn left and completed a slow 180 degree turn. The plane finally leveled its wings as it headed back to the east, first over Israel, then over Jordan
and finally over Saudi Arabia.

As the aircraft flew to the east at a true ground speed of over 580 miles per hour, it leveled out at 36,100 feet. The team of Israeli commandos sat in silence. A couple of men who had better English skills were flipping through various magazines that were on board, including Time and The Economist. This Gulfstream usually ferried senior American officers around the globe and was outfitted in a way that would leave any Fortune 100 executive happy. To pass the time, several men picked up newspapers on board, even though they could not read English, hoping that the photographs would be sufficient to convey the stories. No one had been allowed to bring anything connected to Israel other than what was inside their duffle bag. Experience had taught the men to take full advantage of the restroom on the plane. It would be the last functioning toilet they would encounter for some time. The CIA agent acted as flight attendant and passed water bottles and small snack packs of peanuts and Oreo cookies out to the men.

Two hours and twenty-eight minutes after takeoff, the Gulfstream touched down to the northwest on runway 30 right at Ali Al Salem Air Base, just to the west of Kuwait City. The plane decelerated gradually and turned right about two-thirds of the way down the long runway onto the Papa loop taxiway. The pilot was happy to see that no Blackhawk helicopters were parked nearby as the plane veered 45 degrees to the left and taxied almost one quarter mile to a section of tarmac that was larger than a soccer pitch. The plane came to a stop on the southern end of the tarmac. On the northern end sat a MH-47G Chinook twin-engine helicopter of the 160
th
Special Operations Aviation Regiment of the U.S. Army, known throughout the U.S. military as the Night Stalkers.

The 12 Israeli soldiers walked down the Gulfstream’s short staircase and onto the tarmac as the sun was accelerating its descent to the west. They all wore standard U
.S. Army combat uniforms in digital universal camouflage pattern complete with the insignia of the US 10
th
Mountain Division, topped off with the standard patrol cap. Each man carried an olive drab Army duffle bag as he walked quickly and silently to the back of the Chinook helicopter and up the ramp into the sunlit shade of the helicopter interior.

The five man crew of the helicopter were all veterans. They averaged over
five years of experience at inserting American SEALs, Rangers and Green Beret operators throughout the various countries of the Middle East, working closely with the “snake eaters” who risked their lives in secret missions as the absolute tip of the spear of American military power. None of the three crew members in the cabin recognized any of the men on this team. When they were told in their mission briefing earlier that afternoon that they were not to talk to anyone in this team other than their CIA handler, they knew this mission would be different. When they found out that the insertion was north of Halabja and only a few miles from the Iranian border, pulses quickened among an elite group of men renowned for their cool. The briefing officer, reading the minds of the men in front of him, had admonished them not to speculate and to forget about this mission once they got back to base.

The CIA operator was the last man on board. He stopped next to the crew chief. “Up ramp.” The aft ramp of the
helicopter was quickly closed.

T
he crew chief leaned into the CIA agent. “They are fast roping in, right?”

“Yes.”

“They know what they are doing on that? Know the signals, right?”

“They know what they are doing.”

“Just want to be sure.” The crew chief looked at his payload for this mission. They were all young and in top physical condition. But what caught his eye is that they all had dark complexions, black hair and dark eyes. If not for the American uniforms, he thought, they looked just like the “Hajis” that he had to shoot at from time to time with his M240D machine gun. He was accustomed to the overwhelmingly northern European background of the men who make up America’s special forces. He had no facts, but was sure of one thing: These men were not Americans.

The CIA agent offered his hand to the crew chief, who shook it firmly. “They will be fine. It’s a standard insertion.”

As the Israeli team found their spots, half the team on each side of the long cabin, men placed their duffle bags on the canvas bench seats. Captain Yoni Ben Zeev maintained his silence. He issued his command by lifting his right index finger straight upward and rotating it in the air. Each man removed his American uniform and placed it in a pile near the front of the helicopter. From inside their duffel bags, each pulled out a new uniform, the 3-color desert tan camouflage of the Iranian paramilitary border guards, a standard-issue Iranian winter coat, an AKM assault rifle, a holstered and suppressed SIG Sauer P226 9-millimeter pistol, a back pack and a pair of thin leather gloves. The men were under strict orders not to talk – there was to be nothing said or shown that would confirm the Israeli identity of the team.

At that moment, exactly 368 miles to the north at Joint Base
Balad, an air base just north of Baghdad, an American major picked up a telephone. The Air Force officer was one of the small number of U.S. military personnel left in Iraq for advisory, training and liaison purposes. He called a senior Iraqi Air Force counterpart located in a building about 80 meters away. The two men knew each other well, the American officer being on his fourth tour in Iraq. They had taught each other much about the other’s culture.

Colonel Walid picked up the phone. “Hello.” The word was in excellent English and the greeting itself demonstrated the level of western influence on the Iraqi colonel.

“Hello, Mohammed,” replied the American officer. “How is your family?”

“Healthy, Inshallah. How have you been? We have not talked in a few days. It is getting too slow.” The Iraqi officer’s comments reflected the lack of any functioning Iraqi Air Force more than the reality of life for Iraqis on the heels of the withdrawal
of all American combat forces.

“You are always so eager, Mohammed.” The major paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “We have an issue. We have a UAV that crashed about forty
klicks north of Halabja. We are sending a flight of helicopters north out of Kuwait to retrieve it. They will need in-flight refueling. The refueling will take place at Fueler three five.” The grid reference by the major was for a patch of desert west of Baiji, Iraq that was an oft used spot for refueling operations.

“No problem, Mike. As always, we appreciate the communication. When will they be airborne?”

“Within the next hour.”

“How many aircraft?”

“Three choppers and a single KC-130. CAP will be airborne over Turkey since they are going all the way to Kurd land.” U.S. Air Force policy was to maintain a combat air patrol, or CAP, whenever American military aircraft were flying over potentially dangerous airspace. Halabja was adjacent to the Iranian border and no American officer wanted to be responsible for not having been prepared if American helicopters were suddenly set upon by Iranian warplanes.

“Okay I will send out your SSR codes in a few minutes along with a network flash update. Please route them west direct to
Ralti, turning north direct to Tuben.” Colonel Walid was directing the mission via VOR/DME navigational beacons that would take them west over the sparsely inhabited portions of Iraq. He wanted to bypass Baghdad airspace and he knew from experience this was the preferred route for the U.S. military. “I believe that takes them close to Fueler three five for refueling. Then they can turn east and continue VFR operations. Have them … um … hold on.” The Iraqi officer checked his daily flight manual. “Have them squawk using mode three-a. They are assigned call sign ‘Union Hotel four-five Tango.’ Your tanker will be ‘Union Kilo four-five.’ Set hard ceiling at flight level one two zero for commercial traffic.”

The American wrote the important information on his notepad and then repeated it back to the Iraqi officer for confirmation. “Thank you. Let’s have tea tomorrow if you have some time.” He would have the critical data typed into his computer and sent by email to American military air traffic control within a minute.

“Yes, Mike. I would enjoy to catch up with you.”

Several minutes later
, an email arrived from the Iraqi colonel that provided the clearance code of “7011” to be squawked by all four aircraft and the fighter planes flying CAP, indicating to Iraqi air controllers that this was an authorized American military flight under visual flight rules. For the U.S. Air Force, which had spent two decades doing whatever it wanted to do over Iraq, the new clearance rules and process seemed humiliating. But the major told himself this was the price of peace and progress.

Hamak Arsadian yawned as he slowed his truck to turn right from the four lanes of Iran Road 21 onto the two lanes of Iran Road 15. He used his turn signal – a rare courtesy in Iran. As he slowed he inched toward the left lane to maximize the amount of arc available to the big rig. Unknowingly, he caused the driver in the sedan next to him to get nervous and slow as well. For the driver of the Toyota pickup truck driving in the left lane at over 120 kph and coming up rapidly on the sedan, this inconvenience was not acceptable. The young driver accelerated and turned his wheel to steer his pickup through the right hand lane and onto the asphalt shoulder of the road. Arsadian was just starting to turn his wheel hard to the right as the pickup truck shot past him on the right hand shoulder at close to 130 kph.

“Fucking
rabiz,” blurted out Arsadian as his mind raced to interpret just how close he had come to a serious accident, using the Armenian slang word roughly equivalent to “redneck.” The pickup truck passed by so fast that Arsadian was 20 feet further into his turn before he realized that his foot was no longer on the gas pedal. He pressed back down on the pedal to complete the turn and begin the last stretch of his journey to the rendezvous point. His heart was now racing and his face turned red the way it always did when anger overcame his ability to control it. Being tired now seemed a distant feeling. He took some deep breaths to calm himself, trying to think about anything other than how angry he was at that moment. The face of his mother popped into his mind, as it often did in times of stress.

She had died 27 years earlier when he was 15
, and he was no longer sure if his image of her was from real memories or just a projection of one of the many photographs of her he kept in his possession at all times. But he knew for certain that her death changed everything about his life and his view of the world. The breast cancer that metastasized to her vital organs had made him hate at first. Hatred of God for taking his mother. Hatred of the medical profession in Armenia that he viewed as nothing better than primitive witch doctors. Hatred of his father for allowing this to happen, including yelling at his father one night for not taking the entire family to the U.S. where, the young Hamak was certain, his mother would be cured.

When his mother returned from her last visit to the clinic in Yerevan with a single bottle of pain killers, the teenage boy knew from his father’s reaction that his mother was home to die in her own bed. Hamak stayed home from school for two weeks to take care of his mother as a growing tumor relentlessly attacked her liver. His father had to continue to work each day delivering goods by truck to the various businesses of Yerevan, giving up his lucrative Iranian excursions in order to be home every night for his wife. The family, always living day to day in the best of times, was struggling to pay bills resulting from his mother’s illness – despite ostensibly free medical care as a Republic of the Soviet Union. Like all families, the
Arsadians had not planned or budgeted for the costs of unexpected death. Doctors and pharmacists who demanded bribes for real drugs. Bed pans and basic supplies to care for the bedridden. The cost of a burial plot and headstone – burial being the only option available under the beliefs of the Armenian church. The bills mounted. But regardless of the growing debt, every night his father came home and took over the duties of caring for a woman facing death at the age of only 39.

The experience made Hamak grow into a man, the carefree days of youth now extinguished completely, ground into the dust of the harsh realities of life and death. But the moment that his understanding of the world changed was the day his mother summoned her fading reserves of energy to talk to her first born child. His father was working and his younger
brother was in school. It was a few minutes after 9 in the morning on the second Friday after his mother’s return from the clinic. “What can I get you, mother?” asked the teen as he approached the bed.

“Sit, my son.” Her words were slow and labored. Hamak complied and sat down in an old wooden chair his grandfather had made. The sun’s rays pierced the stale air of the small bedroom, illuminating myriad dust particles floating randomly about the room. The woman reached out with her left hand and Hamak placed his palm underneath hers, careful not to hurt the woman who had always been the pillar of strength in the family but was now as fragile as crystal. “You must do something for me.”

“Of course, mother. What do you need?”

“Swear to me that what I tell you now you will keep secret. Swear on my soul.”

“What? Why?” Hamak’s reaction was typical for a teenager, whether in Yerevan or Atlanta.

“Just swear to me.”

“Okay. I swear that I will keep what you say secret.”

“On my soul. Swear on my soul.”

“Mother?” The teen was confused and felt blind-sided. The mother gathered enough strength to give him “the look” that told her son that he was on his last chance to choose wisely.

“Okay, okay. I swear on your soul.”

The mother managed a faint smile. “You must go and fetch a man and bring him here.”

“Why?”

“Just listen. He lives close by. Go to the corner here,” she raised her right arm to point in the correct direction, “and walk to Losifian Street. On that corner is a house with red awnings.” The mother noticed her son’s eyes react. “You know it?”

“Yes. But who do I ask for and why?” The boy had spent his whole life in this neighborhood. He knew every building and home for blocks in any direction.

The mother winced in pain. She had grown used to the constant dull aching in her abdomen, but occasional sharp throbbing pain hit her. She willed herself for the next few words. “Ask for Rabbi Rothstein.”

“Rabbi? A Jew? Why?”

The mother looked her son in his eyes. “Because, Hamak, I am a Jew.”

“What? That is crazy. We are Christians.” The boy’s voice was raised.

“Yes, son. Your father is Christian and you are baptized. But I was born a Jew and you were born a Jew, as was your brother.”

Hamak let go of his mother’s hand and stood up. “You are crazy in your head. It is the drugs.” He began to pace the room. The Jewish community in Yerevan in the middle of the
1980s was very small, only about a thousand or so. Anti-Semitism existed but the country had always been fairly tolerant, especially when compared to the other Republics of the Soviet Union. Still, Hamak had friends who told him stories of Jews with devil horns hidden under their hats or scarves.

“Your father made me promise to never tell you this. But it is true and it is your right to know. Have you never wondered why we never see or discuss my family?” She struggled to reach for a cup of tea close to the bed. She was not thirsty, but she knew that her son would return to her side.

Hamak rushed over to pick up the cup for her as he thought about her last question. “Here.” He handed her the cup. His voice was tender again.

“Thank you.” She took the cup. “Now listen to me. Go and fetch Rabbi Rothstein. Tell him you are my son. He will come. He will tell you that I am not crazy. But do not tell
your father. He will be angry.”

Hamak just stood there looking at his mother. The weight of her pending death hung on him, threatening to crush his very soul. But now that weight seemed to double. The only thing worse, he thought, was if she had revealed that Rabbi Rothstein was his real father. The thought made him chuckle involuntarily.

“This is funny?” asked his mother.

“No, Mother. It’s just that …” He took his mother’s hand again. “It’s just I am confused. I don’t understand this.”

“I know. This is not easy. When your brother is older, you will need to tell him. But you must wait. Now that you know the truth, you are free to decide the path you take in life. Just do not hurt your father. Now please go.”

The teenager did go to find the middle-aged rabbi, who came to the small house without hesitating, the pair speaking no words as they walked back. Rabbi Rothstein had not seen Hamak’s mother in many years, but he cried with her and comforted her as they prayed the
Vidui. Hamak stood in disbelief as the rabbi of Sheik Mordecai Synagogue, the only synagogue in Yerevan, and his mother prayed in a language the teenager had never heard spoken before that moment. In that instant, he knew that every word his mother told him was the truth and he knew this truth would change his pathway in life.

His mother died the next day and received a funeral and burial under the auspices of the Armenian Apostolic Church. Hamak watched the priest place an icon of Saint Gregory into the dead hands of his mother as her body lay in an open coffin. As he watched, Hamak decided that he must know more about what it means to be Jewish. He kept his word to his mother and never said a word to his father, but his curiosity grew into obsession. He would look for books on Judaism only to realize that the communist regime that controlled his country had long since cleansed the libraries o
f Jewish literature or culture.

His obsession grew as his thirst for knowledge went unsatisfied. Finally, almost three years after his mother’s death, as the Soviet Union was entering its final death throes, he turned to the only source he could find. On a dark winter evening he knocked on the door of the home of Rabbi Solomon Rothstein. The rabbi recognized him and remembered every moment of the morning visit to his mother’s deathbed three years earlier. Hamak spent two hours with the rabbi that night, consuming knowledge as fast as the rabbi and his wife could speak. That was the start of a growing friendship defined by unannounced visits from the young Armenian every few months or so.

That same year Hamak entered Yerevan Polytechnic Institute as an electrical engineering major. The cost of attendance was free, but he found himself in almost nightly arguments with his father, who wanted him to work as a truck driver and contribute money to the family. The economy was collapsing as it was throughout the old Soviet empire. His father was drinking and each day the prospects for earning money seemed to dim. Hamak’s younger brother, then 14-years-old, increasingly turned to Hamak for emotional support. During the day Hamak was at school where he was free and thrived in the intellectual environment that was exploding as the heavy hand of the Soviet state was crumbling. On campus, various groups openly debated concepts like Democracy, private property ownership and free speech. Revolution was occurring and Hamak was in the middle of it all.

But every night, he would return to the realities of family life, reminding him always of the darkness and despair of the final weeks of his mother’s life.
Father’s demands were intensifying, the stress of his financial situation aging him in front of his sons. Hamak finally agreed to drive a truck on weekends and some nights to help make money. He started in late October of his first year in University. This certainly helped with finances, stopping the worst of the bleeding, but the family was treading water at best. Hamak told his father that they would be okay in the end. Everything was in disarray in Armenia, but as far as Hamak could tell they were still in a better position than most. His father seemed to gain no solace from this argument. At least, Hamak told himself, he enjoyed driving a small straight truck around the streets of the city. From the start, he made his reputation by always being on time. At the tail end of seven decades of communist rule, showing up on time was a trait that made you famous.

In February, as the latest winter snowfall melted into a black mess, Hamak was studying at home for a midterm exam in calculus the following day. His father came home late that night. He had been drinking with his friends, arguing over the relative merits of communism, European socialism or American capitalism. He was already angry as he walked in the door. Seeing Hamak home instead of out earning money set him off and the pair spent the next five minutes yelling at each other before the father headed into his small bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Hamak drank a beer to calm himself before returning to his books. He had to be ready for his test at 11 the next morning. He finally went to the room he shared with his brother at three in the morning to get a few hours of sleep. When he awoke, it was 8:32
. Hamak headed for the home’s single bathroom. As he passed his father’s bedroom it struck him that the door was still closed. His father never left the door closed and should have been long gone.

Hamak, standing in his underwear, knocked on the door. No response. He knocked again. “Father?” Nothing. He opened the door. During the night his father had died of a heart attack. Hamak and his younger brother were now alone and Hamak was now the head of the family. He dropped out of University that week and began his full-time career as a truck driver, always being sure to guard his reputation for being on time.

As the years passed by, Hamak brought his brother into the business, which grew enough to support them both – first alone and then later as they each married and began families of their own. When his little brother turned 21, Hamak revealed the family secret. But unlike Hamak, the brother never became curious or obsessed. As he told Hamak at the time, “I am Christian. I will stay a Christian.”

For his part, Hamak had continued to learn about his secret faith. He visited his friend Rabbi Rothstein, always at night and always unannounced, until the night of September 11, 2001
, when he came home to find his wife watching the news, something she never did. The attacks on New York and the Pentagon affected him in a way he could not anticipate. Living in a Christian country surrounded by Islam – and identifying more and more with his Jewish identity – Hamak had watched the rise of fundamental Islam with concern like most Armenians. His business had grown by developing connections in Iran and applying his reputation to the growing trade flowing through Yerevan. He found the Persians to be friendly and accepting, at least as long as they believed him to be a Christian. But when he made his occasional trips into Tehran he ran into the other side of Iran, the zealots who believed that everyone must convert to Islam and lead a pious Muslim life. These Persians scared him but he had to make a living and Iran was the key to his living. He would keep his mind focused on his job and let the rest of the world worry about radical Islam.